


Connecting the Dots

by DisturbNotTheHarmony



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisturbNotTheHarmony/pseuds/DisturbNotTheHarmony





	Connecting the Dots

Connecting the Dots

1

~+~

It makes him angry. It was just a fucking dream. A shitty dream about a shitty place in a shitty time with a shitty scenario. He can still feel the cold biting at his fingertips and cheeks. He can still see those pale, wide eyes staring back at him. An arrow finds its way between them. They close forever. 

It was just a dream, he tells himself. But he knows he's wrong. It's a memory. One he hates. One that always seems to find him when the weather gets this cold.

So he runs. Ignores the sweat-soaked sheet that clings to him and the dull ache in his chest. He needs safety, so here he sits in the closest air duct to his room. The small space makes him feel calm. He counts his breaths like he does before he looses an arrow. The hot air pumping through doesn't warm him. He's empty. When has he not been? He can't remember.

Nat refuses to talk to him while he's like this, so he can't go to her room. She calls him a child. 

He thinks she's right.

He hides where no one can find him. It's how he protects himself. It's how he stays alive. He wishes he had his bow. The familiar grip would help ground him. 

It's dark. He likes it. He can feel the metal buzzing under him, reveling in its comfort.

“Are you close to breaking? 'Cause I have some glue if you are.”

He jerks, slamming his head into the unforgiving metal behind him. The bang echoes throughout the shaft system.

“Shit kid! I didn’t even hear you come up. That’s pretty impressive.” She grins all teeth. The silent you-taught-me-well makes warmth blossom in his chest. The numbness is fading in tiny increments. “Are you close to breaking?” she repeats. He knows what she means. Jesus, is he really that transparent? If he walked out could everyone see it on his face?

“Dad gets that way sometimes. I do too...”

He ignores the meaning behind that. Ignores the way she hugs her knees to her chest and just stares at him. Doesn't want to imagine the horrific things they did to someone so young. It's not right. But didn’t that happen to him? And Nat, too? And everyone in their line of work? A empty chuckle rattles in his chest. 

“...but dad's got the best cure for it. He said we all need a little glue to put ourselves back together. I could show it to you if you want.” She wants to help him. He wants to laugh in her face. He can visualise all the ways to trap her in this tiny space and break her. He knows all the nooks and crannies he can hide her body so it will never be found. He can't help it. It's who he is, who he's become. This him wasn't made for this.

He doesn’t know what to say. What glue can put someone as fucked up as he is back together? He's got too many sharp edges and missing pieces. He's got broken glass where his bones and heart should be. Nat tells him it's a good thing, because he can rip them out and use them as weapons. He thinks if he were less broken, he could love Nat like a normal person.

He watches her instead. She stares back. She doesn’t blink. It's pretty fucking creepy if you ask him. At least she doesn’t look at him like they used to. Like he's nothing more than a stupid kid, a worthless carnie, a potential fuck up, a damn nobody, a monster. It's like she almost sees a person, a good man, in him. He doesn’t know how that makes him feel. 

(That's a lie. He knows, and it fucking terrifies him.)

She's got fire for eyes. Fire is protective, she had said once as she clasped a dying ember in her palm. It keeps people away from where they shouldn’t be and warms you up when you get cold. He thinks he understands what she means now. 

She is fire and he wants to burn.

He says yes.

She scoots closer along the vent. She suddenly lunges, and he nearly flips his shit and breaks her neck. 

Her arms wrapped around his neck the same moment his hands found hers. He can feel her pulse beat calmly under his index finger. It would be a simple thing, just twist a little to the left, there'd be no pain...

The tension melts from his body slowly. His fingers trail away, leaving dark marks that make him feel satisfied. 

Idiot kid. She should know better. They both know that's why she did it, though. Another trust test of hers. He hopes he passed.

And the kid's hugging him. Like an actual, real-life hug. People don’t touch him like this. He's a sniper. A never-seen assassin who takes away people from their loved ones. He never gets close enough for someone to choke the life from him or to see the light fade from their eyes. He's got red in his ledger, so much it's gushing blood. He's just another weapon in their arsenal. But here the kid is hugging him, like he matters in this fucked-up world where they make kids kill for food and break people to be remade in a new, twisted image. Like he's important. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there. It's long enough for him to warm up and stop shaking like a goddamn leaf. If there's water evaporating in this cramped space, no one will ever know. 

(She promises she'll never tell. He trusts her.)

He doesn’t remember when his arms wrapped around her either.

“Well if you’ve got glue, then I've got gorilla glue,” he finally says. It's the stupidest fucking joke, but he doesn't care. The flames flicker quietly, and he squeezes her against him as hard as he can. So tight he doesn’t know where he ends and she begins. He wants to hate himself for defiling something so much purer than himself, even though she's pretty dirty, too. It's okay, she whispers in his ear. She forgives him. She trusts him.

He's burning, and he never wants to stop.

She squeaks in surprise when he swings her in his arms like a fucking Disney princess, and he starts to laugh. It's short lived. A laugh. When was the last time he allowed himself such a luxury, he wonders?

It's okay, she whispers in his ear. He thinks it's a beginning.

The flames have melted some of the sharper edges. Some are still smoking and dripping down one drop at a time into the empty spaces. It's not much, but it's a start. 

So he smiles at her. It's a genuine one. He wonders if she knows how special she is. Only one other living person knows this him. Who knows, maybe he can show this to everyone. But not now. Now, it's all them. 

Their little secret.

He slides them close to the vent's opening, which he kicks open. He wonders if she trusts him enough for this. Maybe it's another one of her secret tests. He honestly doesn't fucking care.

They flip out of the vent. He catches her, makes sure she's tucked safely against him. They giggle like it's their new private joke. Maybe it is. She swings out of the princess hold he's had her in right around to his back. Her legs wrap around his waist and her arms swing lazily over his shoulders, bouncing as he walks. He calculates how much force he would need to swing her over his shoulder and snap them like twigs. He doesn't do it. He holds her tight against his back instead and hopes she gets the message. She does. So she plasters herself against him and wraps her arms around his neck. He can feel the hidden strength in those little sticks she calls arms. He can feel the heat from her palms scorch his chest, can feel the flames lick across his collar bones. Those small, delicate hands are strong enough to choke the life from him. Anyone who got close enough to try something like that in the past is dead now. Except for Nat. Never Nat. 

And now her. 

He promises to himself that he'll never hurt her. No matter what. Never, never, never.

She is the queen, and he is her knight.

She is the fire, and he is going to burn alive.

 

2

~+~

It's been so long since she slept that she doesn't feel tired anymore. There's a dull thrumming in the back of her skull. She knows the signs and ignores them. She hates herself for her weakness. The Red Room never could cure her of this.

She makes herself a cup of tea from Bruce's stores. He has so many boxes he'll never miss it. Its a bit too late for the help but it makes her feel better. Not that she'd ever admit it.

She makes her way throughout the Tower. She memorised the placement of every chair, sofa, bookcase, and coffee table the first time she walked through so she walks through now not flicking on any of the lights, knowing it will irritate her. She doesn't need to break something now and bring the whole team down on her head.

She finds the living room easily. She settles herself in to the nearest loveseat and pulls an old afghan around herself. She knows she'll need it later. The blood is pounding behind her eyelids already.

This is going to be a rough one, she can already tell.

She sips her tea and tries to relax. Well, relax as much as she can. She never truly relaxes. The price (curse) of her training. She breathes in and out evenly. It doesn't help much. The pitch black shadows around her do nothing to soothe her vision. Closing her eyes won't work either. The colorful starbursts and galaxies hidden behind her eyelids feel like explosions and broken bones. She rubs uselessly at her temples.

These demons have pained her for as long as she can remember. They always appear after a gruesome incident. She'll feel the slack of a body crumpling beneath her hands, hear the familiar squelch of blood entering places it should never be. Those feelings will carry on well after the mission is over.

It's been a surprisingly long while since the last one of these.

(She pretends not to know the reason why.)

She doesn't know if these demons came before or after the Red Room and their serum but she knows that she will never be rid of them. She is strong of mind, spirit, and body, fought countless enemies, but she could never fight these. One can strengthen their muscles all they want, but the internal organs were a completely different matter.

Maybe this didn't happen once; when Nataliya Alianonva Romanova was a real person and not a shadow of the past. A little ballerina who didn't know how to shoot a gun and kill a target. That is not her. Not now.

She sips her tea. The muscles of her neck are coiling, her shoulders following suit. Soon her whole body will be a mass of pain and suffering.

“If you need some medicine, Dad and I can get some for you. Migraines suck, trust me, I know.”

She doesn't flinch but she knows her unease is showing.

“There is no medicine for this. I've tried it all.” She sees twin pools of shine in the weak moonlight. Tapetum lucidum. The mirror human retinas lack that allows night vision in low light circumstances. She watches the two orbs float over to the sofa and descend.

“Dad can find some chemists to cook something up specially for you. Do you know if they're normal headaches? Or are they from the Red Room, and all the memory wipes? That could help.”

Her expression won't reveal anything, but she forces the skin to slacken, just in case. It won't do much. She can hide behind an expressionless mask but her kotyonok will watch her eyes. He always told her her eyes were the windows to her soul. She regrets not believing him until now.

“Ivan.” That's all she'll say. It's enough. The lights disappear with a blink and a sigh accompanies it.

“Just give me a sec, okay?” The reflective pools rise and pad silently to the kitchen. The lights don't flicker awake.

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. It helps keep the tension out of the muscles in her forehead and neck. The quiet clinks of metal and ceramic help to calm her. It reminds her of simpler times, when there was no need for any of this. At least, that's what she always believed.

“Here, you should drink this.”

“Angel moy, you do realise I could kill you six different ways with that mug alone?” Impressive. She didn't even hear her kotyonok emerge from the kitchen. The girl pushes to mug into her hands softly and slinks back to the sofa, ignoring her.

“It's warm milk with honey, feverfew, and peppermint. Dad makes it all the time. It works wonders for him, so maybe it'll help you, too.”

She appreciates the effort. It's the second best thing someone's ever done for her, beaten only by his massages. She finds herself wishing he were here, if only to help her through this. She hates herself for her weakness, for wanting him, but she's learned lately that help isn't necessarily a bad thing. One of her old teachers told her once that you can only fight alongside someone for so long before you love them. You can only hold someone's life in your hands for so long before you let them hold yours. She believes him now.

She doesn't regret what she is and what she's done. She is what she is, and there's no changing that. But as she sits here, sipping the warm milk with a cloying taste that someone else made for her out of the goodness of their own heart, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, a life made of relationships based on debts and favours that none of them will ever be able to fully repay... isn't so bad.

He likes to tell her that they’ll just have to spend the rest of their lives trying to repay those debts and favours. She’s not stupid enough to think that their lives will last that long, especially not hers, but it’s… a nice thought.

She's always told herself that love is for children. Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side, a dangerous emotion similar to an unpinned grenade. It's a useful tool, but is changeable and dangerous. 

She is broken. She knows that better than anyone else. But sitting here, and living with these people has started to change her view on this fucked up world. Now she thinks she could actually have a life, fix all her broken pieces, and love him the way he deserves. His printsessa watches her all the while, as if she knew.

Of course she knew, because she is broken too. Not nearly as bad as herself, but still shattered, and still picking up the pieces. Her kotyonok is a brave one. She is proud to know her. She wonders if his printsessa will come to be hers as well.

These people that she lives with now, she knows why they are all here. These men are good men. They're here to save the world.

The world can burn, she thinks some(most)times, for all she cares. She just knows she's got a few more debts to pay and favours to make. 

But for the first time in a long time, she thinks she may have a chance. That blinding, elusive chance with which he always teases her. She watches the shadows, watches her kotyonok watch her, and thinks she knows why. He has started to reach for that future. Maybe she should as well.

“So did Robin Hood tell you he decided we wanted to stab the toaster with a metal arrow in it's- and I quote- “black, electronic heart” for burning his cinnamon bagel yesterday? I told him it was well within the toaster's rights to electrocute him to death. Self defence and all.” The anecdote warms her, which in turn surprises her.

She rolls her empty mug between her palms, calculating how much force she would need to throw it with to break her neck. She doesn't do it, but they both know that if it came down to a one-or-the-other situation, she would. And they both know she wouldn't regret it.

(Maybe that's a lie. She thinks she's too broken to tell anymore.)

They continue watching each other for a while. Her angel makes two more mugs of milk for her as her body unwinds completely for the first time.

She doesn't have many happy moments, but one day she'll think of this, and the story of how he almost killed himself over some stupid bagel, and she lets herself have a quiet chuckle.

 

3

~+~

He watches through the monster's eyes as she lands in front of him, wings puffed wide. She isn't afraid of the other guy anymore, and that fucking terrifies him. His very self, his control, everything, ripped away from him. He could kill her so easily, yet she just stands there with a goofy smile and asks him to watch the sunset with her.

Sometimes it'll be a smile. Sometimes it will be tears in her eyes. Sometimes it's the stubborn jut of her jaw. This is one of those times.

He'd just lost it. There was another article about them on the news. The anchorman obviously didn't like them much, considering how much slander they'd heard from him before, but this time he'd gone too far. He started mocking the people with close ties to them. He went through the entire list, making every member of the team stiffen in anger, and eventually, he'd reached Betty. The names he had said, the things he had hinted at, the innuendos-- they were all too much.

In hindsight, he should've learned to ignore the news by now, but he couldn't help that he was curious. This is how he pays for it.

He explodes. His teammates rear back, realising what has happened but unsure how to handle him. And she lands and just strolls up to him like she and the other guy are old friends. The other guy watches her like a hawk, grunting at her as he stomps around. She should turn tail and run. He wants to scream at her but the other guy's vocal chords won't react to him, so he just sits there and waits for the blood and screams that he knows should come.

They never do.

Instead, she calmly tells the other guy that he's safe, and there's no one here that would hurt him, that Betty was safe and the dickwad of a reporter wasn't going to be on much longer.

Just like that, the other guy calms down. He thinks this should scare him. They haven't really talked, but she knows what the other guy can do to her. She knows, and she doesn't care, and that scares the shit out of him.

He could hurt her, just like he hurt Betty. He knows she's strong; he's run enough tests on her and has been her doctor long enough. But that's nothing close to reassuring. 

But the other guy just walks along with her to the closest balcony and they watch the sky change, from perfect-day blue to beautiful pastels, then to midnight blue. Like they aren't a couple of monsters in danger of killing everyone they love or being put down.

They stay that way until he shrinks down to just being him. The other guy grumbles and snarls in the back of his mind, but it's quiet and it doesn't bother him, surprisingly.

She had the foresight to bring him some clothes, which he accepts gratefully. When you've lived like he has, with a giant, green rage monster that rips your clothes to shreds, you stop feeling embarrassed about public nudity.

They don't talk about it. None of them do. They give him his space. He keeps to himself and his lab and wishes for the day this will end.

He knows it will be a very long while before that happens.

So until then, he tries to bury himself in his work. Tries to find a way out of this mess, this personal hell that he's created. He's looking for the light at the end of the tunnel, he thinks.

(He'll never find it; that much he's sure of.)

It isn't until he finds himself with a face full of pillow that he realises someone's been calling him. He feels vaguely guilty, but doesn't really regret it because this is important work and he can't push it off.

She's standing above him, perched on his desk and frowning at him like he just made a rude comment about her favourite movie. He waits for her to repeat her question. He thinks it was a question. Maybe.

They sit there watching each other for a moment longer before she jumps off the desk and pulls the closest swivel chair to her. She immediately spins herself once she sits in it and he wonders why he keeps the chair in here when that's all she uses it for.

He tries to ignore the fact that she's the only one who uses that chair.

“We could bring her here ya know. She would be protected in the Tower. She'd be here, and she'd be safe.”

He feels his stomach coil and shoulders scrunch up. The idea of being in this place, in this line of work, and being with her at the same time fucking terrifies him.

“We both know that wouldn't work out. Besides, the other guy's made his stance in regards to my relationships.”

“You're right, he has. He's just fine with all of us. You're just fine with all of us. You wouldn't hurt her, neither will he.”

He snorts. Just thinking about having her in the same room as him and the other guy is enough to give him nightmares. He watches her huff and twirl aggressively. He faintly wonders if she'll spin so fast she'll fall out. He doubts it.

It ends up happening anyways.

They laugh together and the twist of hate in his chest begins to unknot. She sobers first, frown firmly in place. He thinks he knows what's coming, but then again, she always has a way of surprising him.

She slides a slip of notebook paper across the table. She pats it once and leaves it. A bargaining chip. A peace treaty.

“I know that it's hard, trust me I know. I might not be able to know the same way you do, but I do know. I'm always afraid of what I can do to them, afraid I'll grip them just a little too tight, and that'll be the end. We both know that much, but you've got it worse, and that's okay. It's hard, and it's always gonna be hard, but that's what makes it worth it at the end of the day. It's kinda like what I always tell Petey- I live life the hard way because it makes life more interesting. It's the same with you, and that's okay.”

He shifts in his comfortable chair, one that probably costs more than a car, and tries not to understand. Considering it's him though, it doesn't work much.

He understands, he really does, but that won't change decades' worth of conditioning in five minutes. Can't change. He watches the puppy dog eyes come out and he knows he's sunk. Those damned eyes could make him do anything, and she knows it.

She just had to ask, and now he knows he has no choice.

He will always listen when she speaks. She deserves that much. 

He wonders if he deserves this. He hopes he does. And he hopes to a God he doesn't believe in that she's right.

She grins at him, and he knows.

She leaves with another twirl of her chair, and he smiles faintly as she actually skips to the door. Skipping. That's what this has come to. He chuckles again and wonders if the slight tinge of hysteria is only in his mind.

His hand slides across the table top and he finds himself looking and a string of numbers. That little devil. 

He smiles.

This won't be over for a long time, not by a long shot, but he's beginning to think he can begin again. Maybe, just maybe, this will end well.

He taps a nine button beat. His hands are shaking.

He lifts the phone to his ear. He prays and prays and prays. He thinks of their smiles, so different yet so similar. His chest constricts.

He presses call.

 

 

4

~+~

He doesn't understand this world's customs. He knows that. These tiny people don't understand his. He knows this as well. Had this offence occurred elsewhere, the perpetrator would have been slaughtered where he stood.

On this world, such things are looked down upon. The Man of Iron and Woman of Spiders kept him away from his lover's accident. He wishes to bring the sky's wrath down upon the young man the Son of Coul is apprehending.

The youth had driven a metal transport, an automobile, Jane had told him once, taken in an act of thievery past the small red stop light. This resulted in a catastrophic collision the nation constantly fears. Sixteen transports destroyed; four dead, his beloved and many others wounded.

He tears his way through the wreckage. He faintly hears the sirens of the nearest guardians and healers, the screams of passersby, the sound of broken glass crunching beneath his feet. He rips his way through her transport. She is not dead; that much he can tell without an incantation. His breath flees his body at the sight of her blood

He cradles her body close. She is small in his arms, a limp child in a giant's palm.

He nearly fights the men clothed in blue as they try to take her from him. His bulk is intimidating but this does nothing to deter the men. A warm palm rests on his bicep, and calm envelops him.

“Let them take her. They can help her in ways you can't. They won't hurt her, and if you behave right now, we can ask to be taken with her.” The Winged Daughter pleads silently with her eyes. Her emotions lie naked, encased in a soft face and bright eyes. He releases his charge and the men rush around him, connecting his Jane with wires and a mask to many machines.

The little one bargains with the healers and together they are herded into the wailing transport. The collision is left behind in a whirl of sirens and the harsh blaring of horns. He anxiously awaits the time he is allowed to leave the cramped space.

He listens to the clipped words the healers trade. Multiple broken ribs, concussion, severe abdominal bruising, internal bleeding.

His heart dies with each new discovery, his lungs constrict with every word.

His rage has left him and emptiness now dwells within his heart. The Winged Daughter is a balm at his side, observing him while they're taken through endless hallways, but not getting in his way. The healers force him to wait in an unforgiving chair while his affianced undergoes surgery. They want him to leave. He fights to stay. The thunderous boom of his voice and his impressive stature fill them with unease, but they don't cower to his whims.

His companion keeps tempers from rising, mediating between their parties. A most impressive feat. Despite her small size, she radiated control. He envies her for her ability.

She has twisted her words well, and the healers allow him to stay. He is forbidden from watching the surgery and interfering, and as a result he is granted full access to her room once the procedure has concluded. His relief would stagger a lesser man.

She sits next to him. Together they wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

He swears to the All-Father that he is moments from insanity. It seems an eternity has passed but in reality only two hours have occurred.

The Small Lady tests his knowledge of this realm. Her quizzes consist of dining, etiquette, monetary values, popular culture, and literary works. It has been much to absorb, but so very worth it. His love is delighted each time he comes to her with new knowledge. Together they sing praises to his teacher.

She reminds him much of her father- the indomitable thirst for knowledge, the love of sharing such with others. They are so very much alike, completely unsimilar to his relations to his own father. Just thinking of their bond fills his chest with wisps of phantom pain.

It makes him wonder what his Jane's father is like, and if they, too, are similar in any ways. They haven't spoken much on the topic. She already possessed complete knowledge of his family through the good doctor's books, yet he knew nothing of her life. It makes him feel wretched inside.

The little one clears her throat, politely steering his mind from darker topics.

“She's gonna be okay, ya know. She's a tough girl, and a few broken ribs and some bruises will be nothing for her. I just hope you're ready to wait on her every whim while shes glued to her bed and unable to work!”

She grins warmly. He rejuvenates himself in those rays. The mental image of his affianced ordering him like a lowly servant brings a smile to his lips. She would hate being bedridden, as obsessed with her work as she is. He swears now to make her life as easy as possible, as he will always swear.

His beloved will try to belittle her injuries, because she is that headstrong lady he fell in love with. He looks forward to the fights and caring for her. These petty spats are nothing. Simple hurdles to jump across and strengthen their bond. He looks forward to that very much.

He sits there, imagining this future with her as she goes through this surgery, and he can't wait.

They sit in the stiff chairs for several more hours before his beloved is released from the healers and given her own room. He thanks the little one, who shrugs as if her act was nothing of import. He vows to repay her greatly when his betrothed has fully recovered.

They sleep in her room that night, lulled by the constant beep of life.

He sleeps upright, holding one of her frail hands, and can feel the tight muscles he will awaken with.

They don't matter to him. So long as he can wake by her side, that is his only wish.

His lover takes another two restless days before waking. 

The little one passed the time with little tricks and tidbits of knowledge she gleaned from the healers and her own mind. She held his other hand and stayed curled into his side like a babe to her mother.

He thanks her again. She shrugs.

When his Jane's eyes open, he sheds tears of joy and relief and fear with her. Later, when she is wheeled away, the Winged One and he sit and enjoy the peace. Of course, that never means it is silent.

She warns him of all risks and turns his lover's health may take, and quizzes him constantly so he may not forget.

A fortnight later, when his Jane signs herself out “against medical advice” because she will not sit here and rot away like a vegetable when there is work to be done, damn it! he watches on as she vehemently fights to have her way.

He turns to the Small Lady.

He smiles.

Thank you, his soul says.

She smiles back.

It's no problem, she eyes reply.

Full of life, his beloved's rant carries on.

 

 

 

5

~+~

One, for the friend lost to the mountain.

Two, for the dance unstepped.

Three, for the war friends past.

Four, for this world's tragedies.

One, for Fresno.

Two, for French lessons.

Three, for fondue.

Four, for lost camaraderie.

He smashes through the last bag, scattering its guts throughout the gym.

He can't breathe, the water is crashing over him, he can't hear her anymore, her voice is fading, there's so much white, there'swatereverywherehecan'tbreathe-

Footsteps rush towards him and he barely dodges a right hook to his cheek. He backs away and throws himself into a defensive position. He feels naked. He might not have his shield but he can still fight without it.

He shoots out a fist. He expects a grunt from his attacker's landing, not the tiny palm that stops his punch in its tracks. He sees past the haze of his mind and recognises his attacker.

“What do you think you're doing?” The words taste like ash in his mouth.

“Isn't it obvious?”

She lunges for him and lands a solid punch square in his solar plexus. His breath leaves him in a hurry and he weaves back to gain distance.

In these situations, she's never been that kind to him. 

She delivers a devastating roundhouse and knocks him flat on his behind. She stands over him like a little kid playing 'king of the rock'.

“I'm fighting you, though you don't seem to be putting up much of one back.”

He's still breathing hard from his panic. His knees are weak. His heart is pounding.

He kicks out. She lets out a shocked cry as her knees buckle from a well-aimed kick to the caps. Her palms slap the floor as she lands. He throws himself to his feet and tries to regain his balance. He tries to breathe evenly as she pushes herself to her feet as well. They meet evenly. They stare at each other, waiting.

The stillness is stifling, but he is at home.

The constant thrumming in his veins, the stillness of his body, the evenness of his breath.

The peace is broken.

They throw themselves at the other.

Her tattoos create a mesmerising flash as she punches lightning fast. Neither of them can land a punch, though. It irritates him, how evenly matched they are. He's so used to being the strongest in the field. It's taken some adjustments, definitely.

She tries to sweep his knee. He jumps back and aims for her ankle, but she catapults herself away. She makes a wide run to his left side and tries to slip behind him and aim for his kidneys. He won't allow it. He catches her by her bicep and flips her over his shoulder. He feels her twist in midair like a cat.

He watches her land on her feet and launch herself with a flip over him. He almost misses dodging the kick aimed for the back of his neck. He narrowly avoids her, the power pushing strands of his hair back against his sweaty forehead.

Gee whiz the kid is powerful. They're too evenly matched. They've missed every hit so far, but when one does land, it most likely won't end well.

He paces their battleground, watching her do the same. His blood roars in his ears. She puts up a good fight. The entire team does, but she's always the one to push him the furthest. Nat can flip him as many times as she likes. She'll never have anything on her.

They rush at each other. He aims for her stomach. One good hit would knock the breath from her and he would be able to pin her. Of course, it won't be easy.

She proves this by slamming the heel of her palm into his nose, then ducking and sliding between his legs. He feels her hook an ankle around his and he knows what's coming. He braces himself for the impact, and when he hits, he rolls with it and springs to his feet. She has yet to stand up, so he jumps to wrap and arm around her neck in a head lock.

She immediately pushes her chin to his elbow which she shoves upward. The angle is awkward, and he knows she's going to be loose any second. 

Without thinking, he grabs both of her arms and locks them together behind her back. He doesn't realise his mistake until two sharp curves of bone shoot past his ears, skimming them.

He releases her immediately, hoping the damage hasn't been done. He's proven correct.

She wheels around to face him, a deceptive smile on her face.

Oh crap, he thinks, and that's all he can manage before he's suddenly facing the ceiling. He can feel where she kicked him. It's right below his diaphragm and that was enough to make him see stars. He's just lucky she didn't go for his private parts.

He stays there, panting. His muscles burn in the good way. He turns his head as she trots to his side. He grasps her outstretched palm and lets her pick him up off the ground. They face each other again.

They're both out of breath and light trickles of sweat run down their temples. In these times, he thinks that they're the closest they'll ever be, that they're so similar. One in the same.

He startles when she starts to move. His defensive position is wasted, however, when she walks away.

He tries not to feel disappointed that the fight is over. He likes to pit himself again someone so strong, and they very rarely get the chance to spar.

But this wasn't a spar, was it?

They had been going at each other like they were out for blood. He felt so focussed. Nothing else mattered to him but the next punch, the next dodge, the next breath.

“Attendez!” 

Oops. The situation made him forget himself. The foreign language feels familiar on his tongue.

He's glad she actually stops. He doesn't think his knees would be able to move right at this second.

“Yes?” she asks after a moment of silence. His brow furrows. She won't turn around, and he has no clue how to phrase his question. She starts to walk again and he just blurts it out.

“Why? Why did you do that?”

She turns around and gives him a soft smile.

“How're you feelin', cap?”

Then he realises. The cold feeling is gone now, his chest free of its usual weight. He can breathe normally, and doesn't feel like he's about to lose himself to his panic and nightmares.

He faintly registers her walking away.

He thanks the empty silence.

 

+1

~+~

He drinks to them. He's surrounded by stinking sweat-soaked sheets but since when has he cared about something like that? The whiskey burns his throat on the way down. 

It feels like damnation and retribution all in one.

He drinks for the brave man lost in the cave.

He drinks for the brave fool lost in the carrier.

He drinks for the lives he has cost.

He drinks for the lives he has saved.

He drinks for the hole forever in his chest.

He feels like screaming. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs and scratch his eyes out. The memories ruin him.

He drinks to remember, and he drinks to forget.

He's ashamed of himself, of this weakness. He's had a fucked up life, sure, but he's been trying to make it better. The thought he was succeeding. These fucking dreams haven't bothered him in almost a month. So why now?

Why does he have to return to this method? Why does he have to be like this? Why the fuck does he exist?!

He hates his weakness. He hates the tears that stream down his face. He hates the people who made him this way, who crafted the mould, who forced him to fit it.

He slumps over. He knows he's landed wrong immediately because the reactor aches in his chest and he feels like he's going to faint. He's so lost in his terror that he doesn't realise that the man standing above him, ready to rip out his heart isn't real. His chest hitches. 

He can't breathe, his chest hurts, he's going to die, it hurts, it hurtsithurtsithurts-

The slap to the face doesnt hurt nearly as much as that man's betrayal, those stinging words from his childhood hero, all his near death experiences, but it's pretty damn close.

He cracks his eyes open.

(He doesn't remember shutting them.)

His main reason for living, his driving force is staring down at him with tear-filled eyes. 

He hates himself a little more.

She didn't ask J to turn the lights on, but they can still see each other- her night vision and the little nightlight in his chest. It washes her face with blue and bring out her eyes.

How many times has she seen him like this, like a pitiful child afraid of the monsters under the bed and hidden in the closet?

He wants to vomit.

No, in fact, it's a need, and his little girl knows it. She pitches him over the side of his bed and shoves his face in the direction of the bin. He retches. This burn feels like dying.

When he's finished, he finds the decanter of whiskey gone from his room and a wet cloth to wipe his face with.

“Im ganna slap tha crap outta ya, I hope ya know that!”

He groans. His ears are ringing and he definitely doesn't want to deal with this right now.

“Honey, sweetheart, light of my life, can't you please tone it down for daddy?” 

It hurts to talk. Tears slide across his nose since he's still lying on his side, and they fall into his other eye, making it doubly watery and irritated. Warm hands card their way through his hair and trail down his back. Huh, he didn't even realise she'd moved.

She sits with him, a reassuring constant pressed against his back.

This has been reversed plenty of times, and been just like this just as many.

His little girl, who's just as fucked up as he is. Whenever the other has a really bad nightmare or a panic attack, they search each other out. They need this, this comfort, this similarity.

He turns so his face is pressed into her stomach and let's her carry on comforting him. They revel in the silence and match their breathing.

They need this. The both of them.

She lets him cry, and she cries with him.

Sometime during the water festival, he sits up and pulls her into his lap. He needs an anchor and she gives him a (somewhat)healthy weight to hold on to.

“How much glue do you need?”

She must feel his smile because she squeezes him tighter.

“What ever you wanna give, kiddo.”

“All of it. Everything.”

He really shouldn't be surprised at her answer and how quick it came.

They always save each other. It can't be healthy.

(It really isn't, but he's never really cared about healthy relationships before so why start now?)

They sit there with J calling out every half-hour that passes by. He doesn't let her go once, and she does the same to him.

“I told Bow Boy about what you told me that first night. He was really corny about it, but he definitely appreciated it. Even made a joke.” Her voice is warm.

“What was it?” His voice cracks like broken glass.

“Well I hugged him first, then he stuck to me like Velcro. He said that if I had glue, then he had gorilla glue.”

That surprises a laugh out of him. He can see her grin in the reactor's glow and smiles back.

“I hope he appreciated it. My advice doesn't come cheap so he better pay for that later.” They both know he already has.

(And if he just happened to corner Robin Hood after a fight and told him so, well, that's between the two of them.)

“Do you want me to stay?” 

Hm, does he? He already feels weak and he has a feeling that if he asked her to leave now, he might sink back into the darkness, and he definitely does not want that.

So he shakes his head and knows she'll understand. They wiggle down to lie horizontal and they try to sleep. They don't wish each other a good night. They know it's very possible that it won't be.

She keeps her hand safely over the reactor, a protector, a promise.

He presses a kiss to her forehead.

(She tells him later, that he's a protector, that he promised to always protect her, so she'd do the same for him)


End file.
